Thoroughly Modern Millie
by PutMoneyInThyPurse
Summary: Millicent Bulstrode is a lesbian. Vignettes from first through sixth year.


Author's Notes: Just something that took over my head while polishing up the transitions for 'Aura' and 'Throw me a Line.' Yes, yes, I know, Millicent Bulstrode, and no, I don't know what came over me.

* * *

First Year

Millicent was born on January first: Capricorn with a Taurus ascendant. "Hard as nails, our Millie," her aunt had always said, and Millicent had agreed, though she disapproved both of the twee-ness and the diminutive "Millie", which she felt lacked character.

She wasn't Millie. She was Millicent. She had looked it up. It was a proud witch's name, suitable for a pureblood witch. It was taken from a Germanic name, 'Amalswinth,' which was formed of two words: Amal meant work, and Swinth meant strength. Labour and strength. That was good. It was very good.

It also sounded like Militant. That meant warlike, and she liked that.

She had no patience with her family, who were always going on about making her a good match and finding her a suitable wizard for a mate. Sometimes they lamented that she had not been betrothed in infancy to some eligible wizard or other. They whispered that she was too strong, too boyish, not feminine enough to be a suitable consort. Which suited Millicent just fine. She was hard as nails and she knew it. She prided herself on being strong. While the other four-year-olds were playing with dolls, she was climbing trees. While the ten-year-olds braided their hair and played dress-up, she played broomless Quidditch with anyone who would let her; after a while, everyone wanted her on their team because she could run so fast. Her family gave her pretty dolls which she promptly deposited under the bed. Sometimes, she would swop them for Quaffles or sweets or newts' eyes with boys who wanted gifts for their sisters. Consort indeed. She'd show them. She was nobody's _consort_.

Millicent would go far. She wasn't surprised when she was sorted into Slytherin. She came from a long line of purebloods, fighters for racial purity all. Where else would she be Sorted, anyway?

Born on January 1, Millicent was perpetually several months older than her classmates. When most of them were eleven, she was twelve. When most of them were twelve, she would be thirteen. She welcomed the age difference. It made her feel superior. She liked being superior, and she knew she was ambitious. She rather despised Draco Malfoy, the King of Slytherin, but prudence dictated that she be a follower; she was in no position to challenge the leadership of a member of the House of Malfoy. So, for now, she followed.

* * *

Second Year

Quidditch was a stupid game. Yes, it was fun playing it without brooms, but flying – Millicent was an Earth sign twice over. She was the clumsiest thing ever to mount a broom. She sometimes caught herself wishing that the Wizarding world had introduced Muggle football. That sounded like a game she could really get into, all muddy and earthy and physical. But flying, all that air with nothing to hold onto, chasing elusive balls in that dizzying expanse of sky – that was madness.

But she liked Madam Hooch.

She didn't know why, but there was something about that strong, short-haired figure that was bracing, refreshing. She found herself spending time where she knew the brisk Quidditch coach would be. Something about the woman told her she was nobody's consort, either. She was a Hufflepuff; a Slytherin wasn't supposed to look up to a Hufflepuff.

But she wanted to be like Madam Hooch.

It was such a change from the witches she'd seen all her life – either simpering and trailing yards of stupid fabric, the better to go up in a really good blaze with the first good Flame-Throwing Charm, or cold fish like Draco's Mum, or stern and sexless like that Gryffindor bitch McGonagall – just a witch who was healthy and energetic and smelt of the outdoors, whose short hair was ruffled by the wind and to whom everybody listened. The entire school Quidditch complement, strong athletes all, jumped to attention when she spoke.

She dreamed of being like Madam Hooch at night, when she touched herself.

* * *

Third Year

"Oh, Draco, that's just _mar_vellous!"

"And then I said to him…"

Millicent Bulstrode, now a mature fourteen-year-old in third year, prided herself on knowing the ways of the world, which was why she rolled her eyes as she watched Pansy Parkinson ingratiate herself with the spoiled Malfoy brat. Yes, he was the Big Man of Slytherin and she owed allegiance to him in a kind of nominal way, but damned if he didn't treat that girl like dirt. There she was now, sitting on the Common Room sofa with his head in her lap, playing with his hair after 'helping' him with his Divination homework. The conversation, if it deserved being dignified as such, consisted mainly of Draco's boasting and Pansy's breathless admiration, which Draco would tolerate until he'd had enough of her, at which point he would get up and leave without so much as a goodnight.

Really, it was infuriating how that girl let Draco treat her like a doormat. It was as though she had no dignity where he was concerned. Yes, she had probably been betrothed to him since childhood – Millicent knew this was the way of many of the highest-ranking families – but it still didn't explain why she made such a fool of herself over him, and in public at that, fawning upon him as though he were the last boy on earth.

And the way he treated her! Yes, she might be a little over-attentive at times, but it didn't give _him_ an excuse to treat pretty little Pansy that way, either! Pansy was everything a man could ever want, Millicent thought angrily. She was a pureblood of impeccable pedigree and faultless lineage. Her soft hair; that upturned nose, which some thought ugly but Millicent found innocent and endearing; the dusting of freckles on her baby face; her grace and femininity; her girlish charm; and her overriding eagerness to please the boy she loved. _God, if I were her boyfriend I'd treat her better, _Millicent thought.

She thought it every night she touched herself and imagined being Pansy's boyfriend. She would blush to remember her dreams in the daytime.

It was a week later that Millicent walked into the Slytherin common room to find Pansy in tears.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"N—n—nothing," sobbed the girl. Merlin's beard, but she looked lovely, even with her eyes red and swollen like that.

"Nonsense," Millicent said briskly, "there must be something."

"It's—it's just that Draco—well, I suppose I am too clingy and—and possessive, but what can I do? I love him…"

Millicent snorted. "Making you doubt yourself now, is he?"

Pansy stared at her, her tears drying in shock at the other girl's sharp tone. "What?"

"Oh, you know!" Millicent burst out, unable to stop herself. She marched over to the sofa and flung herself down beside Pansy. "It's always do this, Pansy, do that, Pansy, and you just go yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full, sir. Enough is enough! Can't you see you're making a doormat of yourself?"

"But—but I love him!" Pansy wailed.

"Love him my foot," Millicent snapped. "All I've seen is him using you and him brushing you off like a minor annoyance. That's a poor excuse for affection."

Pansy burst into tears at that and threw herself into Millicent's arms. She thrilled to feel the warmth of the smaller girl in her embrace, and took a deep breath to calm herself down, rubbing her back soothingly. "Oh, don't say that, Millie!" Pansy sobbed, and Millicent stiffened at the nickname. "Say he loves me! He's my boyfriend!"

"He treats you like rubbish. If I were your boyfriend I'd treat you the way you deserve."

"What?" Pansy giggled and her tearstained face turned up to gaze into Millicent's eyes. Millicent swallowed nervously. "How—how do I deserve to be treated, Millie?"

"Like a princess," Millicent choked out, unable to help caressing Pansy's cheek. "You should be put on a pedestal and adored, and loved like the beautiful, devoted girl you are." Pansy's lips trembled, and Millicent leaned towards her, mesmerized. "If you were my girlfriend I'd never let you be lonely. I'd never make you cry. I'd always have time for you and I'd bloody well appreciate the nice things you did for me…"

Pansy giggled gently, her mouth open with wonder, her upturned face gazing mesmerized at Millicent. "You think… all that about me?"

"Yes," said Millicent gently, and in the grip of the tender moment, leaned forward and brushed a gentle kiss on Pansy's lips.

Pansy shrieked.

"Eeww!" Millicent recoiled in horror as Pansy jumped up off the sofa, shoving Millicent violently away. "Ugh, disgusting! How dare you! You filthy, unnatural…" Millicent just stared as Pansy's innocent face assumed an expression of pure venom. "How dare you! Worming yourself into my good graces just to molest me!"

_It was just a kiss_, Millicent wanted to say, but she stayed where she was, mortified waves of shame and fear coursing hot and cold through her, staring blankly in the face of Pansy's tirade, all traces of tears gone now.

"Well," the pug-nosed girl said nastily, "you'll never molest another girl again. I'll see to it that Slytherin House all knows about your dirty little secret… Lesbo Bulstrode!"

The girl she had been secretly in love with for the better part of three years turned on her expensive heel and flounced away, no doubt to shout the news of 'Lesbo' Bulstrode's transgressions from the rooftops. But Millicent's self-preservation instincts held strong. She had not been Sorted into Slytherin for nothing. By the time Pansy reached the portrait hole, Millicent had already levelled her wand.

"_Obliviate_."

* * *

Fourth Year

She could not take her eyes off Cho Chang. Of course, most of the school couldn't, as well, and after the fiasco with Pansy last year she'd be mad to try anything like that with the silken-haired Chinese girl, but she couldn't help her eyes surreptitiously drifting to the Ravenclaw table over her mashed potatoes. The way her pink cheeks flushed, her translucent skin glowed… Mudblood she might be, but oh, the way her black hair flowed in the torchlight…

There was no shame in being attracted to a Mudblood, Millicent tried to convince herself. After all, her mother had told her that pureblood families had used Muggles as their sex slaves for centuries – it was all they were good for, she'd sniffed. So whatif she imagined herself and Cho in scenarios very different from that of mistress and slave? Cuddling before the fire, laughing together, kissing under the beech tree… She shook her head. Lesbo Bulstrode. All it took would be for someone skilled at Legilimency to look into her mind and her secret would be out – and it wouldn't be so easy to Obliviate them this time.

She glanced up at the Gryffindor table, trying to distract herself. That vapid fool Potter was staring at Cho like a lovesick calf. She wanted to go and punch him in the face. But worse, she realized with a sick feeling, was Cedric Diggory at the Hufflepuff table. He was making sheep's eyes at the Ravenclaw, and she was mooning at him right back. As Millicent watched, Cho rose from the table to go towards the Hufflepuff side, just as Cedric rose and moved towards her. With a gesture of old-world gallantry he took her bag, and they walked out of the Great Hall together.

Millicent ground her teeth. She wanted to kill Cedric. She imagined herself felling him with a swift uppercut to the jaw, at which point Cho would see that she, Millicent, was the stronger, and fall into her arms…

"…fancy Cedric too?" Daphne Greengrass asked smilingly.

"Hm?" Damn, she had been caught out. Always be alert, the childhood injunction thundered furiously in her head.

"I said," Daphne smiled, "it's pretty obvious you fancy Cedric. I mean, who doesn't? You were looking at Cho like you wanted to tear her limb from limb."

Millicent forced a smile. It was a poor Slytherin indeed who couldn't take an easy out when it was offered up on a silver platter. "Yes," she replied. "He's just so…" She searched for an adjective. "Good-looking, isn't he?"

"Yeah," Daphne agreed. "Pity he's a Hufflepuff." She giggled.

Millicent stuffed her mouth full of potatoes to end the conversation.

* * *

How could she ever have thought Cho pretty? This vision of divine loveliness, this silvery creature, shining and ethereal – _this_ was perfection incarnate. She watched Fleur at the dinner table, with her adorable broken English and her polite manners, and wanted to throw herself at her feet. Only the certain knowledge of the consequences stopped her.

Oh Merlin's beard, she had gone insane. The girl was a _Veela_, for crying out loud! As if loving Mudbloods wasn't bad enough, now she had gone and fallen for a girl they should more properly be studying in Care of Magical Creatures. _With that oaf Hagrid_, she thought out of habit. Sometimes, though she didn't admit it, she felt a bit like Hagrid herself, all big bones and clumsy feet, and certain knowledge that no girl she fancied would ever look at her because they were too busy mooning over the likes of Cedric.

Or anyone else, she thought angrily as she saw the fabulous Veela-girl share a laugh with Roger Davies when they thought no one was looking. Merlin, she wished she were a man. Then she could sweep any girl off her feet. She'd know how to get that Fleur away from Davies all right – and then…

* * *

She sat in the stands for the First Task. _She's a creature_, Millicent thought desperately. _A creature. She turns into a bird when you make her angry_. But oh, her smile… _An evil bird, pecking out men's eyes_. The way she walked. Her eyes. Her laugh, that silvery laugh like phoenix song.

And then Fleur started the Veela-thing, the Veela-song. It wasn't really a song… it was sound you could see, thoughts you could hear. It wasn't only the Common Green but the audience, too, that was mesmerized by the Veela-song. Millicent didn't blame the dragon. If she had been a dragon, she too would have been hypnotized. She felt gleeful that Cedric was injured, and resented Potter's easy success. He was nothing but a show-off, she thought, and he didn't even have to work for his victory.

* * *

Fleur was the main reason she went to the Yule Ball. Her date was distracting and a bore, and quickly wandered off in search of more interesting company. Millicent watched Pansy fawning over Draco as he twirled her around the dance floor, occasionally casting glances at the Veela-girl when he thought no-one was looking. Now the attraction had faded, she could see clearly the insincerity in Pansy's oh-so-sweet demeanour, the hardness behind her submissive ways. How could I ever have thought she was pretty? Millicent wondered. I must have been young and silly, she decided.

She spent the evening staring at the silvery girl flying across the floor in iridescent robes, wishing she was Roger Davies. Later, when the couples went out into the garden, she followed. She watched Fleur and Roger kiss, watched the way he touched her, listened to the little mewing sounds Fleur made as her hands moved over Roger's body, and stole back to her dormitory to fantasise about things she had never even dreamed of before.

* * *

She sat in the library, looking up the meaning of the name. Fleur Delacour. Flower of the Courtyard. Millicent sighed. Closing her eyes, she could imagine it: a romantic courtyard in the South of France, overgrown with climbing greenery, with a fountain in the middle dappled with sunlight, and a single French lily, blinding in its beauty, climbing high above the stones, catching the sunlight in its translucent petals…

Her reverie was abruptly ended as somebody tripped and stumbled into her, knocking her book to the floor.

"Oh, excuse me. I 'ope I did not 'urt you."

Millicent gazed up at the object of her dreams, open-mouthed. She was looking down at her, and she was ten times more perfect in close-up than she was from afar. Her hair hung down in a shining curtain, shutting Millicent off from the world. Her throat was dry as she struggled for speech. "I. Er. No, nononono, you didn't hurt me at all." She managed to regain her composure by looking down at the desk. "Er, is there something I can help you with? I mean, being in a strange library and all."

"Zat would be very kind of you," Fleur smiled, and Millicent gulped hard. "I am looking for a book on ze Bubble 'Ead Charm."

"Oh," Millicent rose. They'd studied that at some point, but when she couldn't be sure. It ought to be in _Useful Charms for the Outdoors_, if memory served. "That ought to be in the Charms section." The lovely girl followed her deeper into the stacks. "I think it's around here somewhere," she scanned the titles. "C-GR-201, C-GR-202..."

"You 'ave a completely different classification system from France."

"Yeah," Millicent was relieved there was at least one subject on which she could talk normally. "Charms is C, Transfiguration is T, Potions is P, and so on. Then the letters are for the – Ah! Here we go." Triumphantly, she pulled _Useful Charms for the Outdoors_ off the shelf. "Madam Pince will probably let you borrow it, but if she won't, would you like me to borrow it for you?"

"No, zat is all right," Fleur smiled, "Beauxbatons 'as a temporary loan system wiz 'Ogwarts."

"Oh, that's all right then," Millicent smiled stupidly.

"Sank you."

"Oh, no, no, not at all, really." She was no longer useful to Fleur. Fleur would go now. Millicent froze, feeling all arms and legs and stupid bulk.

Fleur gazed at her for a moment, and she could see every fleck of grey in those wonderful, bottomless eyes. Finally the French girl said, "You admire me, yes?"

Millicent gaped. Her mouth opened and shut several times, and finally she decided that the absolute technical truth would be the best refuge. "Yes, I do," she stammered out. "You're very pretty, and… you did the First Task really well." _There, that wasn't so hard, was it?_

"No, I mean you admire me as a man loving a woman."

For the life of her, the sophisticated Slytherin couldn't come up with an answer. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

Fleur smiled. "It is good. It is not bad. I am a Veela, I feel your eyes on me and I – 'ow you say? – I weesh very much to also like women, so I can like you."

Still staring into Fleur's eyes, Millicent wondered if she had been put under a charm of some sort. "But it's wrong."

Fleur threw back her head and laughed. "Wrong? Is zat what ze English 'ave taught you? That this is _wrong_?"

"Quiet!" snapped Madam Pince. "Oh, it's _you_," she said, apparently softening under the onslaught of Veela charm. "In English libraries we must be quiet, my dear."

"I was just telling her to quiet down, Madam Pince," Millicent lied, tipping Fleur the wink while fixing the librarian with her most sincere smile. Pince glared at her – Slytherins were discriminated against everywhere, Millicent thought through her whirling brain – and walked away.

When she was sure there was no one around, Fleur bent towards Millicent under cover of the stacks of dusty old volumes. "Eet is not wrong," she whispered, close and conspiratorial and sisterly. "Een ze Wizarding community een France, _l'amour entre femmes_ – eet is ze basis for much powerful magic. Eet ees as normal as love between a boy and a girl."

"Lum—what?"

"_L'amour entre femmes_. Love among women."

Millicent stared at the Beauxbatons student, not caring, for a moment, about her beauty. "And in France, it's—normal?"

"Yes," smiled Fleur. "But zen, we are much more accepting Muggle ways zan here."

"_Muggle_ ways?" Millicent wrinkled her nose. "What do Mudbloods have to do with this?"

"Zat is not a nice word, I theenk," Fleur frowned. "But ze Muggles accepted zis much before ze Wizards and we followed zem."

"What?" the English girl exclaimed. "But Muggles are full of nothing but prejudice, everybody knows that! We have to hide because if we didn't, they'd kill us all!"

Fleur smiled tolerantly. "You sound like a pureblood _suprémaciste_," she retorted. "Yes, zere are some old-thinking people who still don't accept, but ze Muggles are not bad as a 'ole, and our relations wiz zem are much better zan 'ere. 'Ere, you 'ave nuzzing zat makes Muggles togezzer wiz wizards, and also you 'ave nuzzing zat accepts _une femme avec une femme._" She caught herself. "A woman wiz a woman."

Millicent gaped at the French girl. "You're – you're sure you're normal?"

"_Normale_?" Fleur nearly laughed again. "Yes, I am _normale_, but you are _normale_ too, Millicent." She pronounced it like a French name. "I like boys." She bent forward to peck Millicent chastely on the cheek. "But it is not bad zat you like girls." She smiled encouragingly at her one last time, then turned to walk away through the stacks.

"Wait!" Millicent whispered after her.

Fleur turned, her face frank and open.

Millicent blushed. "Could – could you teach me those French names again?"

* * *

Fifth Year

She loved being a part of the Inquisitorial Squad. She loved being powerful.

Sometimes, late in the night, she would wake up drenched in sweat. She would remember Cedric, remember his body, and think that last year, she had wished him dead.

_I didn't kill him_, she thought fiercely. _I didn't kill him_.

A double Earth-sign, that was Millicent. Not given to fits of the vapours. Certainly not given to foolish fancy. And if the words "_une femme avec une femme_" drifted across her mind sometimes in a lilting, silvery voice, she ignored them harshly. That had been last year. She had outgrown such foolishness now. Now there was Potter to keep in check, along with his precious Gryffindors; a chance to pay them back for the lost House Cup and so many indignities heaped upon the Slytherins over the years. Dumbledore's unjust reign was over, and Millicent, like most of the Slytherins, couldn't be more glad.

Which was why she felt honoured to be asked up for a special conference with Umbridge in her office. The woman was personally repulsive to her, with her velvet bows and her kitten-infested office, but she had been a Slytherin after all, and she was the High Inquisitor at Hogwarts. She was wise enough to separate the personal from the professional.

"Do come in, my dear," simpered Umbridge. In a way the woman reminded her of Pansy, and she now disliked Pansy. "Sit down." As Millicent sat in one of the two green leather chairs before Umbridge's desk, Umbridge pointed her wand at the door. "_Colloportus_."

A little bolt of shock went through her. "Am I in trouble, Professor?" She sat up very straight and stuck her chin out aggressively, a trick she used to hide her nervousness. She didn't know what exactly Umbridge did to students who got in trouble, but she'd heard whispers, and didn't intend to find out.

"Oh, no, not at all. Not if you cooperate," came the worrying answer.

Millicent remained silent, the injunctions of all true purebloods running through her head. _Never give anything away_, she thought. _Don't volunteer information_. But she was extremely unsettled when Umbridge left her seat behind her desk to sit opposite her, their knees almost touching.

"I'll tell you why I've called you here," Umbridge said, lowering her voice to a confidential undertone. "I want to get rid of all the abnormal witches in this school."

Millicent just stared. Was it possible that she knew… "What—what do you mean?" she asked.

"Oh, you know," Umbridge said, leaning so close Millicent could feel her moist breath on her face. "The _lesbians_. The witches who lust after other witches. They're an abomination, and I won't have them in this school!"

Even though she was sixteen and too old to be frightened, Millicent heard her heart pounding, her insides like ice. "Oh?"

"I was thinking we could denounce them to the Ministry of Magic," Umbridge smiled, baring teeth, "and perhaps get them reclassified as dangerous creatures, like the werewolves. Don't you agree?"

"Oh, yes. Um," Millicent stammered, "er…"

"Unless there's some reason why we shouldn't?"

"Oh, no no," Millicent gasped. She was beginning to hyperventilate.

Umbridge gasped and stood in shock. "Millicent Violetta Bulstrode!" she gasped. "Is it possible that you are one of those girls?"

"Oh no," Millicent gasped, standing too, "Whatever gave you that idea?"

Umbridge smacked her hand down on the desk, making Millicent jump. "Ah-ha!" she cried. "Caught you out! You see, I know all about you and that girl!"

Millicent paled. It couldn't be Pansy, she'd Obliviated her. Unless the Obliviation Charm hadn't worked, or hadn't been strong enough? And it couldn't be Fleur, could it? Maybe someone had overheard her and Fleur? "H—how do you know?" she asked shakily.

Umbridge's smile was smug. "I know now."

Millicent smacked a palm against her forehead in pure self-rage and frustration. "Stupid!" she exclaimed aloud. It was the oldest trick in the book, and she had fallen for it! "Ah!" she yelled in frustration.

"There, there," Umbridge put a consoling hand on her shoulder, and it gripped tighter when she attempted to shake it off. "I won't tell anyone if you won't." Millicent was just wondering what to make of this when the large woman stepped closer and put her mouth to hers.

"Gerroff!" she ejaculated and shoved the witch away. "Don't you dare!"

"As you will," Umbridge adjusted her rings. "I wonder how the rest of Slytherin House will react to knowing you are to be dismissed at year's end for your unnatural conduct. I can make the announcement at dinner or at breakfast. Which would you prefer?"

She stood there, helpless. She knew her name was supposed to mean Strength and Power, but it meant nothing at all as the High Inquisitor stepped forward again and began to feel her up beneath her robes.

* * *

Later, she staggered out of the office, adjusting her clothing. Her hair hurt from being pulled; her lips were swollen and her nipples throbbed from the woman's teeth, but at least she'd preserved her virginity. That was something. She'd received a promise to "keep your little secret", as long as she remained loyal to Umbridge and the Inquisitorial Squad, kept quiet about this and came whenever she was called.

A first year passed her in the corridor and she hexed him nonchalantly, not even bothering to look as he ran off screaming.

* * *

Sixth Year

"Someone hurt you."

"What?"

"I can see it in your aura. Somebody hurt you badly, didn't they?"

Millicent looked up at Luna Lovegood over the mandrakes they were repotting. "What bloody business is it of yours?"

"None," said Luna dreamily, "only I was nearly molested for being a lesbian, too. But I managed to stop him, and you didn't. It was a man that tried to do it to me. But it was a woman who hurt you, wasn't it?"

Millicent had thought that nothing could ever shock her again. Apparently, she had been wrong. She stood there, her jaw flapping like an idiot, until the lesson ended.

As the quiet Ravenclaw girl walked off, she considered her options. Yes, she was a bit of all right, but she was the worst kind of pureblood! Her father was a raving lunatic! She was laughed at by half the school! She… "Luna!" She sprinted after her. "Since you're the only other girl who likes girls in this whole flaming school, will you go out with me?"

Luna pondered it a moment. "No, I don't think so," she said contemplatively. "You've always been horrible to my friends."

And Millicent was shocked again. "You have friends?" she managed to choke out.

"Yes," she said softly. "Ginny, and Neville, and Hermione, and Ron, and Harry."

"Gryffindors all," Millicent spat.

"Yes," the cow said placidly.

"Well then."

"Yes?"

Millicent couldn't find anything to say to that. Served her right for considering a Ravenclaw, anyway. She stalked off.

* * *

It was after double Potions that the idea occurred to her. Her fellow Slytherins trickled out, laughing and chattering, leaving the Gryffindors to collect their things, slowly as always. She hated Potions even more now it wasn't their Head of House teaching, but at least one good thing came of it – the pampered Gryffindors were always slower to clear up than the more efficient Slytherins. And of course, the last to leave was Longbottom; Granger was helping him scourgify the remnants of his boiled-over potion off the desk, and Weasley and Potter were hanging around in that infuriating way teenage boys had when they weren't really doing anything but feeling the effects of their testosterone.

She made sure the last of the Slytherins, and of course Professor Slughorn, had left, before stepping back into the classroom. "Potter!" she snapped.

It was a credit to Slytherin House that the four Gryffindors immediately rounded on her, wands out. "What do you want?" Ron finally asked coldly.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist," she drawled. "I want to apologize."

Oh, for a camera! The four identical dropped jaws and pairs of staring eyes were a picture she would remember to her dying day. Who said it didn't pay to be polite?

"I'm—" It wasn't easy for her, but she forged on. "I'm sorry for all that with the Squad last year, and I'm sorry I was horrible to you, especially, Hermione, well, you were horrible too but I started it, and I suppose that's about it." She thought a moment, seeing as no answer was forthcoming from the speechless Gryffindors. "And I promise never to be horrible to you again – nor to your sister either, Weasley – unless," she hurriedly amended, "you're horrible to me first."

After another long silence, in which her estimation of the mental capacities of Gryffindors took a serious downturn, Longbottom finally collected his wits enough to say, "It's all right."

"Yeah," chorused Weasley.

Potter nodded.

Granger stared long and hard. "Who put you up to this?" she asked.

Millicent smiled. "If I tell you, will you forgive me?"

The girl was still looking at her suspiciously, but in the end she answered, "It depends."

"Luna Lovegood."

There was another bout of stunned silence, then Weasley burst out laughing. "Trust Luna!" he chortled. "Trust Luna!" Granger unbent a bit to smile at her, and even Potter and Longbottom relaxed.

"So," she said briskly. "Am I forgiven? I've got better things to do, you know!"

"You going to back Malfoy up when he picks on Harry again?" Weasley asked, and she was surprised to hear the steel in his voice.

"No," she said. _Not until further notice anyway_. "Malfoy's off in a world of his own anyway, he hardly notices us anymore," she added, breaking her own 'don't volunteer information' rule.

"You see?" Harry turned to Granger and Weasley excitedly. They both rolled their eyes as if to say "Here we go again!"

Granger turned to Millicent. "All right," she said, with some reserve. "All's forgiven. Just don't expect us to trust you right away, though." The others nodded with varying degrees of agreement. That was the great thing about idiot Gryffindors, Millicent thought – offer them a sincere apology, and they were honour bound to accept it. Until you were proved a liar, that is.

* * *

It was in the Great Hall that she buttonholed Luna. "All right," she said. "I did it. _Now_ will you go out with me?"

Luna adjusted her radish earrings. "Did what?"

"I apologized to your precious friends and said I'd never do it again. That good enough for you?"

Luna stared, open-mouthed. "Oh, that was so sweet of you to call my friends precious!" Seeing the way her protuberant eyes lit up, Millicent decided not to tell her it was a figure of speech. Luna was really quite pretty when she was happy. "And you said you were sorry! Oh, Millicent!"

"So will you go out with me?"

"No, I don't think so," Luna replied.

Millicent could have strangled her. "Why not?" she grated.

"Well, just because we're both lesbians… it's not a very good reason to go out, is it?" Luna said logically. "It would be like two Muggle-borns going out with one another just because they were the only Muggle-borns. Or two Squibs, say, in a Muggle town, just because they were both Squibs…"

"All right, all right, I get your point," Millicent sighed, feeling exhausted. "Well, will you at least go out with me as a friend?"

Luna beamed. "I'd love that," she bubbled. "I can teach you how to heal the hurt, too." And the two girls walked out of the Great Hall side-by-side.

It wasn't everlasting love, Millicent pondered, but it was a start.


End file.
